In 1955 I started high school, and that first year I often had a ride to the second bus. We had to take 3 city buses, but I usually hitch hiked a ride if possible, and usually two of them to get to school. When I had a ride it was with the father of Howie Getlin, a high school fraternity brother of my mine. I’m not sure how many people went with us, but it included my cousin Elliott, Howie, the late Edgar Kauffman, me and maybe Lenny Grossman.
Mr. Getlin’s car had a large brownish yellow stain on the visor and headliner from tobacco smoke, although it was a kind of new car, and the ashtray was usually out and full.
Other than that, I remember the back of Mr. Getlin’s head. I don’t think he ever talked, and we may have said thanks to him when we bailed out at the bus stop.
Now, on Thursday mornings, I take my daughter and three friends to school at 7 a.m. for band. They all get in the back seat and talk about school gossip, make fun of kids who they perceive as less cool than they are and have a good time.
If I speak, they will answer a question, but that’s about it. They see the back of my head, although I do know them in other settings.
But for one morning a week, I am Mr. Getlin.
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